


or else, shall we & why not

by beachkid (binz), binz



Category: Dresden Files - Butcher
Genre: Community: dresdenficathon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-07
Updated: 2008-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:31:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/beachkid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Michael and Marcone have a talk about Faith, love, and humanity. A helicopter is somehow involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	or else, shall we & why not

**Author's Note:**

  * For [havlockvetinari](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=havlockvetinari).



> Assumes knowledge of all books and shorts through Small Favor. Thanks to edana_ni_emer for the on-demand beta. There may or may not be a little fun poked at James Joyce.

> As I sd to my  
> friend, because I am  
> always talking, — John, I
> 
> sd, which was not his  
> name, the darkness sur-  
> rounds us, what
> 
> can we do against  
> it, or else, shall we &amp;  
> why not, buy a goddamn big car,
> 
> drive, he sd, for  
> christ's sake, look  
> out where yr going.
> 
> \- Robert Creeley, _I Know A Man_

 

Five days after the New Year, and the wreathes on the street lights are looking a little ragged. The shine of the bows has been worn away, and boughs and needles torn and blown loose; the wind catches the unpinned ends of ribbon and garlands and flaps them about, long shadows flickering on the street and sidewalk. The snow is old and run through with grey and grime, frozen over with a layer of ice and brittle underfoot.

Marcone grimaces as his boot breaks through the packed-down slush built up around the street corner. Behind him, families and groups of parishioners drift down the sidewalk from Saint Mary's, warmth clinging to their chatter and buzz and escaping with them into the air, billowing and frosted and spreading across the stars. The sky is high and lit blue from the streetlights and the moon is haloed, hard and bright in the wake of the cold front.

The walk light turns, and Marcone glances down the street, pushing against the wind. His coat, plaid and bright with the odd reflective stitch, catches on the headlights of a car stopped at the line, and he squints, face hidden in shadows and under the brim of the Cubs hat he wears. The chances of him being recognized are slim, but he shifts his shoulders to draw the upturned collar of his jacket close to his face, bunching up the scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He sticks his hands in his pockets and shuffles, comfortable in the clothing he normally reserves for his visits to Wisconsin, but, as always, feeling oddly conspicuous.

Across the street there's a cafe, a coffee shop really, hidden between two industrial brick buildings, each stained a featureless grey by the winter and the night, and the lit windows and bright curtains are a welcome sight. He wouldn't say he was a regular, or even a frequent customer, but he'd been there enough times to recognise the tone of the bell signalling his arrival and the rush of warmth and the smell of espresso and steamed milk.

He recognises the man standing just inside the doorway, too, shoving a knit hat into a winter coat pocket and holding a cane with the other hand. A man who was critically injured only two months before and whose recovery was no doubt being called "miraculous" (the reports Marcone's men had brought him were more circumspect in their language, but the sentiment was the same), and a man who would not be fooled by John's unremarkable outfit.

Marcone stops too quickly in the coffee shop doorway, wet boots squeaking on the tile loud enough to be heard over the softly piped holiday music, and curses himself for not simply walking past with his head down.

"Mister Marcone," Michael Carpenter says, looking over, and, much to John's dismay, shifting to face him. "What a surprise. I felt as if I needed something hot to drink, so I came for a cider while Charity and the children helped the Father with the after-service duties. Were you there? It felt particularly inspired this year."

The strength of hope and the spirit, both human and divine, to carry on through the dark. Yes, John had been there, safely anonymous in the back pews. He doesn't answer, and instead adopts a polite, bland smile. "Mister Carpenter," he says, "you're looking well. Your recovery must be the talk of the medical community."

Long practice keeps the guilt off his face, although he fears that, unlike a wizard, Michael Carpenter doesn't need to meet his eyes to see his soul; the man's own was certainly on display: a frightfully content and calming balm, open for all to partake.

Marcone turns to the barista, a thin, boney thing he recognises despite the new, shorter and bluer hair. "Large Chai, please."

Michael draws in beside him, and Marcone pinches at the bridge of his nose, smiling at the barista as she passes over their drinks. Michael beams from where he waits, fresh cider in one hand, a pastry bag pressed into his other with his cane. "Clarrisa," he says around the grin, "I like your hair cut; my oldest has gone for a similar colour ... this time, at least. And how's Taylor? Did she pass that Genetics exam she was so worried about?"

The barista brushes her hand over the ends of her bob and smiles back, chattering even as she waves away Marcone's proffered payment with a laugh. "Not for friends," she says. "Or friends of friends. Not tonight."

Marcone nods, smiles again, and sticks the twenty in the tip jar. Invisible, high-powered and specially trained security patrolling the perimeter and watching his every move: many thousands of dollars. Incognito clothing: forty-six dollars. Large Chai latte: twenty dollars. Carefully crafted law-abiding persona: millions and twenty dollars. For everything else, there's Michael Carpenter.

Twenty-dollar and debt-free Chai in hand, John turns to the door, only to find Michael's broad, welcoming face smiling patiently at him. "Please, Mister Marcone," he says, gesturing with a strong, wide hand. "The Lord moves in mysterious ways; and saving that, I would be glad for company. Charity and the children will be a while yet; please, sit with me."

Any other man, Marcone would have felt fine refusing, could have murmured easy excuses with vague assurances and an opaque smile, but the scars around the fresh notch in his ear have begun to burn as they thaw, and Marcone fixes his face, letting any expression bleed off, and walks through the door Michael holds open.

The warmth of the shop is a living thing, brushing against him, falling back and flexing forward like a creature breathing, and Michael Carpenter's presence behind him is strong and tall, shaping the heat and noise and texture of the room. John settles at a table near the back of the shop, angling his chair against the wall, and watches the sky through the front windows, reflections of inside light and the high, bruised surface, losing tiny, icy snowflakes to the wind and the air long before they reach the ground. Michael drinks his cider and watches him, and Marcone waits as the inside heat slowly thaws his cheeks.

"I believe I have you to thank for my hospital bills," Michael says, cupping his cider in two large hands. "That was very kind of you. And, of course, if you ever need any work done, please, do not hesitate to ask."

Marcone's laugh is more like a cough. "It is hardly a debt you need to repay, Mister Carpenter," he says, "quite the opposite. In fact, I am sure I have not yet returned the balance owing on my life, what little it may be worth, depending on who you ask. And I would warn you against openly associating your name and work with mine. You're no innocent to be so naïve, Mister Carpenter, and it is a disservice to us both for you to pretend to be, or to risk yourself so."

The cane leans against the wall, a small puddle of dirty water pooling around its base, around their boots and under the table, and something jagged and slick moves in Marcone's belly, slithers and churns and settles in. It's a familiar sensation, although more often accompanied by pale institutional walls and privacy curtains and the slow, regular beeping of a heart monitor and an intravenous drip, and John looks away. Michael smiles at him over his danish.

"My offer will remain open, Mister Marcone," he says, and takes a bite of the lemon filling.

Marcone takes a drink that is too fast from his Chai which is still too hot, and breathes while his tongue burns. He can hear helicopter blades, can smell blood and fuel and magic flung wild, and grits his teeth; not this man, not this man. In the end, he was not the death of this man.

He sets his cup back on the table.

Not the death; but perhaps the ruin.

"And how are your wife and children?" He asks, turning the cup with his hand. He keeps his voice smooth, shaping it around the words, the accent that doesn't talk about a second-hand mattress on the floor and cigarettes and torn jeans. "They must be thrilled with your continued recovery."

Michael smiles fondly. "Their Faith has kept me lifted," he says. "And their love keeps me strong, no matter what I may find asked of me, or what is not and may no longer be. Mister Marcone," he says, pauses, "have you spoken with anyone?"

John feels himself tighten, the muscles in face clenching, drawing back, and Michael spreads his hands. "Forgive me," he says. "I was unclear. Have you spoken with anyone who can help you? You endured a horrible thing. You were wronged and wounded and you resisted temptation. You are to be respected, but suffering will not undo that. Your world, your … employer. No, I am not naïve, Mister Marcone, and I find myself doubting that it is equipped to provide you with support under these circumstances. Mister Marcone, please consider talking to someone. The Church will help; Father Forthill is not ignorant of these matters. I will help, if you wish it. If there is anyone you are comfortable with … please. Consider."

John lets his fingers flex; breathes through the thing uncurling in his gut. "Mister Carpenter," he says, pushing what is left of his Chai to the centre of the table. "I thank you for your concern. Perhaps, if I feel compelled to incur more debt to you and your family, I will consider your offer. And perhaps," his lips curl; he thinks of a wizard somewhere under the sky and the snow, no doubt gleefully inflicting property damage. "Perhaps, I will find myself a friend to confide in. Maybe we will go to ball games or go fishing or other such mainstays of male bonding --" he bites his tongue before he says more; tips his chin, and breathes deep.

"I thank you for your concern, Mister Carpenter, and assure you it is misplaced. Please do not consider me so pretentious as to go and gaze upon the snow falling on the church, on the park and streets and buildings, and know it is falling upon all of the universe, the living and the dead ... but know I take your words as well meant, and appreciate the services you offer this city. Holiday wishes to you and yours."

John leaves Michael Carpenter to his cider and does not look back as he closes the coffee shop door, the bell jingling faintly through the glass, and pulls firmly on the bill of his ball cap. The snow swirls about his feet, in the sky above, and he keeps his head down, following sidewalks and street signs and the muscles of the land, letting the buildings and the people press close and push away, and walks through his city.


End file.
